


it is always the false ones that look the most real

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [26]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Fever Dreams, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Sick Ronan Lynch, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Fever dreams for a dreamer are a curious thing.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Series: Prompted Works [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1163126
Comments: 9
Kudos: 137





	it is always the false ones that look the most real

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick drabble for an anon who shared "a Thought: the weird nonsensical things ronan brings back from fever dreams."
> 
> Which is a very good thought indeed. 
> 
> Title is a quote by Salvador Dali. "The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant. ”

Fever dreams for a dreamer are a curious thing. 

Ronan pulls weird things from his head all the time, so you would think that when he’s feverish it would just be… _more_. Stranger, darker, more unsteady. Feverish nightmares brought to life. He rips monsters from his head when both his body and mind are perfectly healthy, so when he’s too exhausted to control it, one would think it’d make it all worst. 

But it’s not. He brings stuff back, sure. Not every time; exhausted and ill as he is, sometimes he doesn’t sleep for long enough, or heavily enough, to be able to dream. But nightwash doesn’t give a single goddamn fuck if he’s the pinnacle of health or preparing his deathbed of tissues and cough syrup, so he must keep creating. Oddly enough, though, his mind seems less dangerous when it’s burning. 

“It’s like, it’s all blurry,” Ronan tries to explain—sick with a virus that isn’t the flu but still fucking terrible—when he’s been woken from fitful sleep by a long coughing fit. “Like they’re all sick, too. Or don’t want to come into my head when it’s so fucking hot and all staticky.” 

Adam could imagine it. Lindenmere behind a screen of television noise, the channel disrupted and flickering with white snow. 

“Let’s hope they keep staying away, then” Adam says softly, rubbing a hand through Ronan’s buzzcut before placing a cool cloth across his forehead. 

This virus is no joke. TKO’d in just over a day: congestion, sore throat, aches, pains, fever, the whole nine damn yards. Ronan’s been laid up in bed for two days, now. His fever is a persistent bastard, cooling off with meds but stubbornly warming back up at the end of 4 to 6 hours. 

Adam sits next to him in bed, thumbing through a worn and scribbled in copy of _Ulysses_ he found on the bookshelf in the study. He’s waiting. Ronan will need more tea, more soup, another dose of medicine soon. Ronan, however, is asleep. He’s been asleep for over two hours, now. Which means… 

Ronan freezes beside him. He’s not mid-thrash or halfway to sitting up—which Adam is thankful for, because that’s always a bit too Linda Blair for his tastes; he hardly changes at all, easily mistaken for sleeping. But Adam has seen it enough to know. 

The ley line energy first sags, then spikes, then returns to its steady thrum. Reality bends over backwards and twists inside out as the empty bed is suddenly filled. 

An apple, rust colored and without any shine, that floats an inch off the bed. It bobs and bumbles as if drunk, and squishes like it’s rotten when touched. 

A shoe like Adam’s red converse, desaturated and fuzzy along its edges. Its tongue lolls; its mouth hangs wide. It drips but doesn’t leave any residue behind. 

A half-formed ball of sickly green yarn, threads gummy and floppy like cooked spaghetti. It unravels slow as molasses without anyone touching it. 

A croaking gramophone, edges all round and wood warping as if damp. Old music warbles in slow-motion. Matte black music notes tumble from the tarnish horn, drop on the floor, and disappear. 

Everything is dulled and foggy, oozing and melting like a Dali painting brought to life. It fills the bedroom with a strange heat that’s both too warm and not nearly warm enough. It makes Adam’s skin break into goosebumps, sends shivers down his spine, beads sweat along his hairline if he’s near them for too long. 

Ronan groans softly and turns onto his side with a grimace and a half-hearted cough. Certain now that the manifestation is done, Adam gathers the dreams in his arms. Aches sink deep into his bones. His vision goes hazy at the edges. He’s wondered, over the past day or two, if the dream objects carry the same contagion as Ronan. Not that it would make a difference; Adam thinks it would take a miracle at this point to keep him healthy after all the time he’s spent within three feet of Ronan’s painful, rasping coughs. It’s more a passing curiosity. What might he find if he brought a sample to a lab? What would happen if he dumped the apple in a vat of Lysol, or injected a vaccine beneath the winkled skin? 

He carries it all downstairs. Music notes fall onto his arm and dissolve, leaving a patch of fever-hot skin behind. Out back, next to the kitchen door, Adam pulls the bungee cords off a metal trash can, releasing the lid and dumping the armful; his brain clears, his sinuses stop burning, the aches leave his muscles. He feels perfectly normal. Tired, but normal. 

The can is already half-full of other mushy, floppy dreams. The gramophone brings the pile almost to the top. He’ll take it to the long barn and dump the dreams once he gets Ronan settled. He puts the lid back on top and secures it with the cords. So far, nothing has been dangerous or desperate to escape. But one can never be too careful. 

Adam brushes off his hands and shakes off the shadow of the fever from his limbs. He puts the kettle on in the kitchen, heats up a can of soup on the stove while it boils, and pours Ronan tea with honey once it whistles. He can hear Ronan shuffling around upstairs, feet dragging him from bed to the bathroom and back across the creaky wooden floors. 

“Hey,” Adam says, soup in one hand and mug in the other as he pushes open the door with his hip. Ronan grunts, or moans—he’s burrowed under blankets and has shoved his face into a wall of pillows, making it difficult to define what noises he’s making. Adam puts the mug and bowl on the bedside table, and presses his palm to Ronan’s forehead. It’s warm again. Ronan nuzzles against it with a hoarse whimper. 

“You can take more Dayquil,” Adam says gently, “but you need to eat first.”

Ronan groans, and it’s clearly in protest. 

“Don’t give me that shit, asshole.” 

Ronan harumphs, but slowly pushes himself into a seated position. He squints at the bed, looking around like he’s lost something. “The dreams?” he rasps. 

“Taken care of.” Ronan doesn’t ask anything more. He eats his soup, takes his meds, and sips tea while watching some daytime court drama Adam pulled up on his laptop. 

Adam kisses his forehead and tells him he’ll be right back. 

He drags the trash can to the long barn. He dumps the sickly dream objects in a pile with the others. The empty can goes back to its place right outside the door. 

Ronan is almost asleep again when Adam gets back. Adam moves the laptop and the dishes, stays on top of the covers while Ronan nestles deeper within them. He curls against Adam’s side with a contented little noise that makes Adam’s heart skip a few beats. Adam rubs Ronan’s scalp. Still warm, but cooling once again. 

Adam picks up the book once he knows Ronan’s asleep. Finds the dogeared page, and begins to read once more. He’ll have to put the kettle on soon. But it can wait. 


End file.
